_Réunions_—The Scarrons—The Fête at Vaux—The Little Old Man in
the Dressing-gown—Louise de la Vallière—How the Mice Play when
the Cat’s Away—“Pauvre Scarron”—An Atrocious Crime.
The return of St Evrémond brought about the restoration of
the old pleasant Monday and Friday _réunions_ of the rue des
Tournelles—whose regularity so many untoward events had greatly and
for so long interfered with.
Ninon could afford to dispense with the less interesting society
of the Louvre, where, except for Madame de Choisy’s friendship, no
very cordial hand had ever been extended to her; while the cultured,
refined Bohemianism of her salon was probably more acceptable to
many of her distinguished friends. They at all events gathered
there numerously. Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld, ever faithful to
the beautiful Duchesse de Longueville; Condé; the brilliant society
doctor of his day and memoir writer, Guy Patin; Monsieur de la
Châtre, also a chronicler of his period; Monsieur de Villarceaux,
Corneille, whose tragedy of _Œdipus_ brought him back in high-heaped
measure the success which had waned since the production of _The
Cid_, so greatly that he had nearly lost heart for dramatic work;
Molière—these two the brightest and best-beloved stars of Ninon’s
firmament. Monsieur Voiture was now no more. His empty niche was
filled by Boileau, who introduced to her his young friend, Racine.
Occasionally, by kind permission only of Madame de la Sablière,
came la Fontaine. Among the ladies of her company were Madame de la
Fayette, the authoress of _Zaïde_ and of the _Princesse de Clèves_;
Madame Deshoulières, called “the French Calliope”; and, as healing
Time’s wings now and again bring, it was Molière himself who effected
pleasant relations once more with Julie de Rambouillet, now Duchesse
de Montausier; Madeleine de Scudéri, the distinguished _précieuse_,
held aloof.
On Wednesdays the Scarrons received their friends, most of those the
same as Ninon’s. Françoise had now long been the wife of Scarron,
and his wit and her beauty attracted a numerous company. The brother
of Françoise had not mended his ways. He was still the ne’er-do-well
result of his miserable bringing up; yet there was something not to
dislike, even something of a soul of good in d’Aubigné’s evil. The
poor crippled poet and his wife were happy in their union. Scarron
had indeed but two faults to find in his Françoise—one of them to
wit, that she devoted herself too closely to him, at the sacrifice of
health and spirits. She had copied all his _Roman Comique_ for him in
her beautiful handwriting, and Scarron, noting that she looked pale
and fatigued, begged Ninon to take her about a little with her into
the gaieties of life.
Scarron’s chronic ailments had not affected his appetite; possibly
amusement being necessarily very restricted for him, his naturally
gourmand proclivities had increased. This was to such an extent,
that his wife went ever in fear of his indigestions, and when he
suggested that she would be so much better for occasional absences
from home, Ninon did not ascribe it to pure and simple anxiety for
Françoise, but also to his seizing a better chance for eating three
times as much as was good for him. Her vigilance in this particular
was the other defect he perceived in her. The desired opportunity,
however, soon presented itself.
Monsieur Fouquet, the powerful superintendent of finance, was a
friend of Ninon—that and nothing more—and one day he confided to
her that he had fallen in love with the daughter of the _maître
d’hôtel_ of the Duc d’Orléans, and desired to ask her hand in
marriage. He hoped, in fact believed, that she was not indifferent to
him; but to make certain, he asked Ninon, such an adept in the tender
passion, as he said, to watch her at the great fête he was about to
give at his magnificent estate at Vaux. It was to be on a superb
scale. All the Court, with all the Upper Ten, were invited guests.
They were to appear in masquerade costume. Ninon, holding that the
good turn Monsieur Fouquet sought of her, merited his ever generous
consideration, asked him to allow her to bring a lady friend with her
to the fête; this favour he accorded with great pleasure, and Ninon
delightedly informed Madame Scarron that she was the chosen friend.
Equally delighted, Madame Scarron selected her fancy costume; it was
that of a Normandy shepherdess, and confectioned with all the good
taste of Françoise. The tunic was of yellow cloth, with Venice point
undersleeves, her collarette was of Flemish lace, and Ninon lent
her some of her diamonds wherewith to adorn her ribbon-tied crook.
Ninon’s costume was composed of pearl-grey satin, trimmed with silver
lace stitched with rose-coloured silk, an apron of black velvet, and
a cap plumed with crimson feathers.
With many instructions to Nanon Balbien, the maid-servant, to take
good care of her master, and to keep a close eye on him at meal-time,
Madame Scarron drove away in the coach with Ninon to Vaux, where they
duly arrived.
Le Nôtre, the royal gardener, had received orders to construct a
splendid ballroom in the middle of the park, and, in the depths of
winter though it was, he achieved a triumph of gorgeous magnificence.
Orange trees were massed within the huge tent, and flowers of every
hue were brought together from every hothouse and possible quarter,
to render the scene a veritable fairyland, glowing in the thousand
lamps depending from the gilded chains winding amid the sheeny
foliage.
But who has not heard of that fête, the ill-omened thing that
brought its lavish giver disaster? Among the guests—named indeed
first on the list of the invited—was she whom Fouquet sought to
honour, perhaps even for whom he organised the entertainment—Louise
de la Vallière; and among the male masquers dancing _vis-à-vis_ to
her, murmuring low as they met, was one habited as an old man in a
dressing-gown, domino sort of cloak, who was, in sooth, but a young
man, the king, Louis XIV. It was not the first dawning of their
love that night at Vaux. Already, at a ball at the Louvre, Louis had
given her a rose, one that was incomparable for sweet perfume and
loveliness. Innocent or politically guilty, it was all one for the
great superintendent of finance. He had dared to love the woman Louis
loved, and the doom of Fouquet was sealed.
And the merry going out of Ninon and her friend also found a mournful
coming in; for when they arrived in Paris next morning and Françoise
alighted from the coach, Nanon hurried to the door to meet her. “Ah,
mademoiselle—madame!” she cried, with a face wild with distress and
terror, “he is dying! he is dying!—my poor master!”
“_Bonte divine!_ how did it come about?” asked the two ladies in a
breath.
Nothing more simple. The master, to begin with, immediately on the
departure of Ninon and his wife for Vaux, had despatched Nanon with
a note to his good-for-nothing brother-in-law. D’Aubigné, having
read the note, said that it was all right, and he would come and
pass the evening with Monsieur Scarron. Nanon, thus feeling herself
free also to enjoy an evening out like the rest, spent it with Jean
Claude, a young man cousin of hers; but when at a fairly decent
hour she returned home, an appalling picture met her eyes. On the
table prepared for supper, lay, or stood as might be, seven empty
bottles, the bones of a capon on the empty plates, with the crumbs
of two Chartres pasties, and an empty Strasburg goose pot, also well
cleared, madame’s brother under the table, and Monsieur Scarron
lying back in his wheel-chair, waxen-white, speechless, but convulsed
with a hiccough, a terrible hiccough that had never ceased all night,
Nanon said.
“Fly for a doctor!” cried Ninon.
And one of grave and profoundly calm aspect appeared, and proceeded
to examine his unconscious patient’s condition; then he shook his
head. “He is a dead man,” he said.
“Ah, quick, Nanon! Quick to the rue de l’Arbre Sec, for Doctor Guy
Patin.”
“What!” cried the doctor, with almost a yell of horror, “the foe to
antimony! I would sooner see the devil himself!” and he fled; for
the battle of antimony was at fierce pitch just then. As a medicinal
agent it was opposed by the medical profession to such an extent,
that the Parliament of Paris forbade its use; although already many
of the profession were as strongly in its favour. Meanwhile Ninon
sprinkled the face and hands of the sick man with cold water. He
opened his eyes and recognised the two.
“Ah!” murmured he, “what a delicious supper. In this world, I fear, I
shall never have another like it.”
“We have sent for Guy Patin. He will cure you.”
“Guy Patin?—yes, he is a grand creature; but, ah!”—and the
hiccough, which had momentarily ceased, recommenced. “Well, people
don’t die of a hiccough, I suppose,” went on Scarron—alas! for the
mistake!—“but that goose, and the pasty, how excellent they were!
Take your pen, dearest Françoise—it is indigestion—yes, but one of
rhymes—till Guy Patin comes. I will see what rhyming will do for
me—some good, surely, for my rhymes shall be of Ninon. Take your
pen, Françoise, and write.”
And as well as she could for her tears, the poor wife wrote Scarron’s
swan’s-song in praise of Ninon. “Well, are they detestable?” he
asked then, between the never-ceasing convulsion of hiccoughs.
“No matter. I have rhymed—on my deathbed—for it is useless to
deceive myself—I—I die.” One last convulsion, that shook his whole
distorted frame, seized him, and he fell back dead.
Then from the depths of the room loomed a dishevelled figure. It was
d’Aubigné. “Dead!” he murmured, leaning over the corpse of his boon
companion. “Well, he ate—all—and I—drank all. _De profundis_”—and
he shuffled out.
Guy Patin entered, but all was of no avail now for “_le pauvre_
Scarron,” as he called himself.
No ordinary character of a man was the first husband of Françoise
d’Aubigné, the woman he so sincerely loved and admired, so
disinterestedly loved, that he would, had she desired, have denied
himself the happiness of living in her society—for he had offered
her the choice of placing her _en pension_ in a convent at the
expense of his own scanty incomings. Driven from his rights as a
child, gifted with great wit and talent, and a generous kindliness,
he was beloved by a large circle of friends. First the victim of
cruel, iniquitous neglect, oftentimes his own enemy, the crosses
of life never blighted the gifts of his intellect, or, it may be
added, of his industry. In straitened conditions touching on absolute
poverty, the _gaieté du cœur_ of Paul Scarron never forsook him,
and if he could have lived a while longer, for his own sake, as he
certainly would for hers for whose future he was ever anxious—he
said with that labouring dying breath, that he could not have
supposed it so easy to make a joke of death.
He had composed his own epitaph long before—
“He who lies sleeping here beneath,
Scant envy but great pity won,
A thousand times he suffered death,
Or ere his life was lost and done.
Oh, Stranger, as you pass, tread light,
Awaken not his slumbers deep,
For this, bethink you’s the first night
That poor Scarron is getting sleep.”
A terrible event—that thrilled society, and indeed everyone, with
horror—occurred in the South of France about this time. To the Court
at Paris it struck especially home; inasmuch as the victim of the
fiendish perpetrators of the crime was the Marquise de Castellana,
at the time of her presentation at Versailles. She was then very
young. She brought her husband, a grandson of the Duc de Villars, an
immense fortune, and her beauty was so remarkable as to distinguish
her amid the many beautiful women of the young kings Court. Louis,
indeed, showed her marked attentions, and she was known as the
beautiful Provençale. Very soon, however, the marquis, who was in
the naval service, perished in a shipwreck; and a crowd of young
and titled men flocked around the lovely young widow as suitors for
her hand. Her choice fell on young Lanède, Marquis de Ganges, and
for the first year or so of their married life they were very happy
in their home at Avignon. Then slight disagreements arose between
them. He began to yield to dissipation, while he accused her of
coquetry. More than that he could not apparently bring against her.
He had two brothers, the Abbé and the Chevalier de Ganges, and both
these men fell deeply in love with their beautiful sister-in-law.
In his capacity of a churchman, the young wife confided many of
her thoughts and her affairs to the abbé. This he used as a tool
to influence his brother, the marquis, as it better suited his own
designs, either to ruffle his anger against her, or to smooth it.
Then one day he pleaded his own passion to her. She repulsed him. The
chevalier made a similar attempt, and was similarly rejected. Furious
at this, they made common cause, and vowed to be revenged on her.
First they attempted to poison her by putting some deadly stuff in
her chocolate, but for some reason the attempt failed. It is thought
that the deadly properties of the poison they used, were nullified
by the milk, and she experienced no more than a passing uneasiness.
Rumours of the attempt began, however, to circulate in Avignon and
the neighbourhood; and the marquis proposed to his wife that they
should go to his castle at Ganges to spend the autumn. She consented;
though with some misgiving. The Castle of Ganges was a gloomy
place surrounded on all sides by sombre avenues and densely-growing
trees. After a short time spent with his wife at Ganges, the marquis
returned to Avignon, leaving her in the care of his two brothers. A
little while previously, a further large inheritance had fallen in
to her, and she had begun to have such suspicions of the integrity
of the family to which she had allied herself, that she made a
will, confiding, in the event of her death, all her property to her
mother, in trust, till her children, of which she had two or three,
should be of age. The abbé and the chevalier, discovering what she
had done, never ceased their endeavours to persuade her to revoke
this will. What successful arguments they could have used to effect
this, it is difficult to conceive—unless they employed threats—and
these possibly they did use; since, after another abortive attempt
to poison her, they one day entered her bedchamber, where she lay
slightly indisposed with some passing ailment. The abbé approached
her with a pistol in one hand and a cup of poison in the other, the
chevalier following with a drawn sword in his hand. “You must die,
madame,” said the abbé, pointing to the three fearful means for
accomplishing the purpose. “The choice of the manner of it is to
you.” The unfortunate woman sprang from her bed, and fell at the feet
of the two men, asking what crime she had committed. “Choose!” was
all the answer.
Resistance was hopeless, and the unhappy lady took the cup of poison
and drank its contents, while the abbé held the pistol at her breast.
Then the two assassins departed from the room, and locking her in,
promised to send her the confessor she begged for.
Directly she was alone she tried to choke back the poison, by
forcing a lock of her hair down her throat; then, clad only in her
nightdress, she clambered to the window and let herself drop to the
ground, lying nearly eight yards below. That the exits and doors were
all watched she had little enough doubt; but by the aid of a servant,
who let her out by a stable door, she gained the fields. The two men
caught sight of her, and pursuing her to a farmhouse where she had
sought refuge, they represented her as a mad-woman, and the chevalier
hunted her from room to room of the house, till he trapped her in
a remote chamber, where he stabbed her with his sword, dealing two
thrusts in the breast, and five in the back, as she turned in the
last endeavour to escape. Part of the sword-blade had remained in her
shoulder, so violent was the blow. The piercing cries of the unhappy
lady now brought a crowd of the people of the neighbourhood round the
place; and among them the abbé, who had remained without to prevent
any effort on her part to escape. Anxious to see whether she was
dead, he presented his pistol at her, but it missed fire. This drew
upon him the attention of the crowd, and they rushed to capture him;
but with a desperate struggle he got away.
The marquise lived for nineteen days after this fearful scene; but
all hope of life was gone. The corroding poison had done its fell
work. Her husband was with her in her last moments, and she strove
in her dying agonies to clear him of complicity in the foul murder;
but the evidence against him was too strong, and the Parliament of
Toulouse condemned him to confiscation of his property, degradation
from his rank of nobility, and perpetual banishment. The chevalier
escaped to Malta, where he soon after died, fighting against the
Turks. The abbé fled to Holland, and assuming another name, his
identity was lost. It is said that this horrible crime was but the
prologue to many subsequent iniquitous adventures in which he was
the prime mover. The sentence of being broken on the wheel which was
passed on these two criminals, and was too good for them, they thus
contrived to evade. Their execrable record lives among the long list
of Causes Celébres of the time.[5]